The Changeling and the Knight
by ThinksInWords
Summary: Loosely based on "Hasse Simonsdochter". Free spirit Eponine is called "changeling" by her town. Underneath the light of Mother Sun and Sister Moon everything changes. The bastard knight can never take away her strength - and he does not want to.


The Changeling Bride

Disclaimer: I do not own a damn thing except my imagination.

AN: So, this is loosely based on one of my favorite books as a child: Hasse Simonsdochter by Dutch author Thea Beckman. I'm just using some plot elements and ideas and hopefully making my own world here. No knowledge of the book is necessary.

All my thanks to Mary, and her ridiculously awesome beta skills. Without her, this story wouldn't even be half as awesome.

Kat, I really hope you like it. I'm sorry I'm a slow piece of shit that got carried away and made you wait forever.

"_O, de suizelende wind door het jonge riet! Hasse Simonsdochter kon er nooit genoeg van krijgen. Vooral in de lente, wanneer het nog groen en buigzaam was, was het riet haar lief."_ – first lines of Thea Beckman's Hasse Simonsdochter.

She has never seen a sight so beautiful as the sun peeking through the forest and trees to hit the water, reflecting the light everywhere. She jumps from her hiding spot and into the light, watching the shapes it creates on her torn skirts – oh Father will be very angry with her when she returns. But how can she worry about Father when there is sunlight and the water is warm as it laps at her muddy feet?

With a skip and a hop, she makes the water splash everywhere, drinking in the sight of the misty drops in the early morning sunlight. The dreary city nearby could never be this beautiful.

The church bells ring all too soon, and she hoists her wet skirts up so as to not get them muddy. Running barefoot through the grass and the hills until she finally reaches the dirt road into town, she wonders if she really feels someone's eyes on her, or if that is merely the sun smiling down upon her.

"Not again, Éponine," her father's friend Babet is already waiting at the gate.

"The water was so nice," she smiles at him in spite of his anger. "The forest is always most beautiful when the sun comes up."

As she walks on, she can feel his gaze on her, and she can hear his mutterings long after she is out of earshot. Changeling child, he called her. It is not the name her mother gave her, but it might as well have been – she gets called this more often than her actual, proper name. They say that the fairies saw the beautiful Éponine with her chestnut hair and pale skin and simply had to take her back to their kingdom. They left her, the changeling with the auburn tangled curls and the tanned skin, behind. Her parents do not feel as if they got a good deal out of it – and if there is anything that her parents care about, it is getting a good deal out of absolutely everything.

"What did we ever do to deserve you?" her mother whines and weeps as she enters the shack that they call a home. "You insolent changeling child. My daughter would never act this way! My Éponine must be a princess of the fairies because of her beauty and charm and intelligence. And we are stuck with this ugly, stupid creature."

She can think of plenty reasons why her parents got an ugly creature like her – her tanned skin is considered too rough for a young merchant's daughter, which is what her father needs to pass her off as to sell her to the right husband. Her hair is a sign of her fairy origins, according to the taunts of the pretty young ladies in town. Still, she fights not to care, because she has her forest and it will never let her down.

"Change, now," Father orders. "Our guest will be here this afternoon, and he wants to meet his future bride, in her proper home. And you had best start cleaning!"

Father would not dare slap her now, when they have a guest coming who could see his handprint on her face. That is a comfort at least – one that she treasures in her hours of cleaning their hovel, until her sister comes to her room to help her put on her fancy clothes, and she can see that damn handprint on her sister's face instead. Her heart lurches and she wishes nothing more than to have the fairies exchange her beautiful sister for another ugly brat like her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, as her sister buttons up her stupid dress.

Azelma says nothing as she walks away.

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After her thirteenth future husband has left, she does earn a couple slaps. She takes them gladly, because at least this time it will not be Azelma bearing them for her.

Her mother cries and her father screams and her little brothers hide in the bed they share, the three of them curled up under the blankets, just waiting for some kind words from Azelma. She herself has always been terrible at comforting anyone – she could never be called kind. Not that she has ever wanted to be called that. She is fine with just being that horrid changeling child.

The moon keeps calling for her, and she stares at it, feeling the wildness take hold of her again. She could never last inside this house for very long. Four walls cannot hold her, and they never will, so she kicks off her indoor slippers – Father insists when they have guests over – and she walks barefoot into the night.

Not even Azelma's angry whispers sway her. She just keeps walking, finding that her strength and happiness return under the moon's pale light. During the day, when she is kept inside by force, she can feel herself weakening, no matter how well she is fed – on the rare occasions when that occurs. Nothing gives her strength like Mother Sun and Sister Moon – and she cannot even explain that.

"Look out!" she hears a shout from a man on a horse.

She dances away, only inches from being trampled by the most beautiful horse she has ever seen. It is not the white horse of folklore tales, but rather the most beautiful shade of black. She names it Shadow as it passes her by, shining under the moon's pale light. Then she notices the man riding this steed; the exact opposite of his mount. The man's pale skin gleams in the moonlight and his curls look like spun silver dancing on his head.

Everything is just so much more beautiful at night – so she rushes to the woods, trying to reach the lake as fast as she can. The faster she runs, the longer she can stay there, feeling the water lapping at her feet as she takes deep breaths of the forest air.

"Faster," she whispers to herself, her skinny limbs moving as fast as they can.

For a brief moment, she actually flies, her feet barely touching the ground as she nimbly leaps through the woods, not even feeling the branches scratching her thick skin. There is freedom in this run, freedom and safety and the sense that she has finally come home again.

"Hello little girl," a deep voice stops her in her tracks.

But not for long. Never for long – she can never stop and stay still, so she tries to run past this man, his breath stinking of cheap ale and the nasty powders the town witch sells to every man who can pay. This is not the first time she has found him in the woods, and it will not be the last. But he does not know these lands like she does, and she will easily evade him. Father's friends will never touch her, and Father will never know that she was out in the woods again. It will be their little secret, as usual.

Only this time, it seems as if they're smart about it. Everywhere that she turns, she finds another man, another one of Father's friends ready to grab her and tame her and make her unfit for even a terrible marriage. They want to take her freedom.

As the men gather around her, her hands shape into claws, lashing out as her nails leave bloody crescents on faces and arms. No one and nothing is safe from her fury – and not even she, the changeling child herself, is safe from her panic and fear. She has turned into a weapon that will not stop until the attack on her stops.

She has had no time to count the men currently trying to grab her, but she can estimate that there are close to half a dozen – and not even a fairy child can hold off six men forever, or even long enough to escape.

"Changeling whore," one of the men curses, a victim of a flying kick.

They are closing in on her even now, and she wonders if fairy children die the way human children do – with cries of pain and tears leaking from their innocent eyes. She is no longer a child with her seventeen summers, but she will die like one.

A steady thud comes closer and closer to her, and she does not give up. They may have more men, other hateful creatures coming to fight her, but she will never give in to their dark needs. Even a changeling child deserves better than that. The moonlight is hidden from her view by the tall trees, but it makes her strong nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe, she can hold them off for just a little while longer.

Only when the sound is close enough to distinguish does she realize that some idiot is actually steering a horse into the middle of this. She switches tactics, from lashing out to making herself as small a target as possible, just to keep herself from getting trampled by a horse forced to swerve through a densely populated forest.

"Oh," she gasps as she is plucked off the ground and yanked onto a horse, her legs splayed uselessly over the side of the saddle.

She is prepared to fight, muscles tense even when she recognizes the black steed and the rider with the spun silver hair. The man who almost ran her over earlier is now trying to take her for himself – or is he? He seems less interested in grabbing her than in taking care of the other men who were just now trying to hurt her. He is slashing with supreme malice, leaving grave injuries in his wake. There is blood on his weapon.

"Hold on," he warns her ever so briefly.

His horse twists and turns rapidly, stepping on limbs as his master hits heads and slices through skin with a gross ease. She cannot stand this terrible cruelty, even though these men were trying to hurt her just moments ago.

Her eyes are closed for mere seconds before she feels a grip on her leg. She kicks hard, but nothing seems to sway this man. Is he truly that desperate to have her this way? It is such an odd idea to her! She has never wanted a husband or a lover – all she ever wanted was her freedom. She does not understand these baser feelings, nor does she wish to understand them.

"No," she feels herself starting to slip off the horse.

The rider turns around, just as she manages to wrap her leg around the man's neck and squeeze it tight. When the horse turns, she both hears and feels the bone snap. She releases her leg and looks up at the knowing light of Sister Moon.

It is like the world falls away for a short while, and there is nothing except Sister Moon passing judgment on her, the changeling child. Her trembling body is unsteady, so she takes deep breaths, trying to keep her breathing from giving away how close she is to weeping. She is an awful creature, but she must not show to the rider just how affected she is by their actions.

She just killed a man. They just killed a man. It was the rider's steering that did it, but it was her grip that got him into this position. They killed a man.

"I will take you home," the rider finally speaks.

"He is dead," she gasps, trying to make him understand.

There is no response. The horse springs into a gallop, and it takes everything she has to keep holding on.

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She has already earned herself a beating from her father when the news of the upcoming execution comes in. The lawmen have captured a murderer, a nobleman's bastard who was traveling through their lands, and he will be executed this very day.

"An execution," Father is pleased at his good fortune.

"Shortly?" she feels her spirit sink.

Someone must have reported the body that was left behind in the woods. This is no coincidence – there are no two murders in one day. Someone else will be executed for a murder that she helped commit. And seeing as they left plenty of witnesses still standing after their daring escape, she fears that some of her attackers have located the rider on the black horse and sold him out to the executioner. If that is the case…

There is only one way that a man facing execution can be saved, and she is not sure that she will be able to do it – it might be too much even for a Changeling child.

Still, she rushes to the market place – a place she usually avoids because of how the people in town treat her. The town refuses to call her by her proper name, as they all believe that her real family has stolen the true Éponine from her crib seventeen summers ago. So she has no name, and will never be called anything other but Changeling.

She makes her way through the crowd, many people showing up to see a Lord's bastard getting his head chopped off, trying to catch a glimpse of the so-called murderer before they put him to death. She is selfish enough to let any other man take her place on this block, except for the rider on the black horse. He saved her from a fate worse than death, and her debt to him must be paid in full.

When she reaches the executioner's block, she sees curls that truly look golden under the light of Mother Sun – his hair only looked silver the previous night because of Sister Moon. He lifts his head to gaze upon the crowd, and she is stunned at the face that she did not see until now. It is truly the face of a nobleman, with a strong jaw line and bright blue eyes that are too rare among commoners. She'd heard that the man facing execution was merely a bastard son, but it is obvious to all that he is at least partly of noble blood. And that is why he is not to be hung by the neck like a common man would be, but instead he is to be decapitated by the executioner.

The axe is glistening in the light and she remembers seeing the rider wielding a bloody blade. Sister Moon must hate them both for what they did, and she knows that she cannot leave this man to bear their sins on his own. She cannot watch his head be positioned on the chopping block when she owes him her life. She will not let him die for saving her.

With a quiet apology to her siblings, she steps closer to her rider, weaving her way through the gathering crowd until she can look him in the eye. She sees a brief flash of recognition on his face before it goes carefully blank again. He is looking death in the eye, but he shows no fear. He makes no pleas to spare his life, not to the executioner, nor to her. Does he even know that she has the power to save him?

Even a Changeling child can offer for someone.

"Wait," she calls out, not knowing how this works. "Please! Wait!"

Her croak of a voice hardly even sways the executioner, the cold hearted man in the dark mask that hides his twisted features. The man simply polishes his axe one final time before putting it down again. Her heart pounds in her throat as she watches that horrid man place her savior's head on the block. There is no more time for second-guessing.

"I offer for him," she screams as loud as she can, her stomach unsettled and her voice cracking. "You cannot kill him! I offer for him!"

Doubts start coming to her immediately, most of them about how Azelma will now have to bear all of the blows. She feels the guilt bearing down on her, because even a wicked Changeling child should help her family before risking everything to save a stranger whose name she does not know. She has just thrown her life away just to tie the last remnants of it to this stranger – all because of guilt.

"You horrid child," her mother is weeping loudly.

Other people have heard her passionate plea for her rider's life, and there are murmurs about her, about how Changeling brats cannot get a husband without forcing a man to marry them. The townspeople speak in hushed voices about what she must have done to bewitch and ensnare this man. They speak of fairy magic and dark spells, and they pity the poor man who has to be her husband.

All she can do is stare at the man in question, and hope he finally looks at her.

"I offer for him," she repeats again, watching her rider's face change.

In her ragged clothes, with her tangled hair and on her bare feet, she must make a terrible bride for a man who is half noble. Still, she raises her head high, because she will not let this town see how she truly feels. She knows all that she is giving up, but she will not for a second give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her regret her choice. Not that they would care one bit about her feelings.

"Very well then," the magistrate has come to solve the problem. "It must be done now. Come here, Changeling, and meet your husband."

The crowd pushes her closer to the block, grubby hands being unnecessarily harsh with her as they wait to watch this situation unfold. Their gazes switch from the Changeling child to her intended, and she tries not to let this distract her. She is still trying to see how the rider is responding to her offer – but he gives no sign of relief or anger. His face is a carefully arranged blank slate, and she can find no aid there.

"Hold out your hands," the magistrate orders as he drags her onto the block as well.

She takes the place of the executioner, that vicious man slinging his axe over his shoulder and stepping off the platform. He becomes a part of the ever-thinning crowd – because people lose interest when there is no more blood to be spilled.

Her tanned wrist looks small and dirty next to his, and it looks even worse when the magistrate grabs a bit of rope to tie the two together, as is custom. The rope will not be cut until they have passed the town's borders, until they have been chased out of town with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Does he even know about their customs?

"We have witnessed this handfasting," the magistrate speaks in the voice he always uses for official moments. "This rope will be your bond, and you will wear it until you leave this town, never to return. In tying yourselves together, you are hereby exiled for good!"

That is when her new husband first takes a solid look at her, eyes widening just a bit in surprise at the pronouncement. Surely he might prefer his head on the chopping block to being married to a Changeling and banished from the wealthiest city in the region, never to return there again. He must regret this now – and she waits for the moment when he realizes he could still blame her for the murder.

"What now?" the rider speaks to her so softly.

"Now we run," she warns him.

The crowd is grabbing sticks, stones, old food; anything they can throw at the newly wedded pair to help run them out of town. Staring at her new spouse, she purposefully intertwines their bound hands as she pulls him off the podium. They might have sold or killed his horse, so there is no choice for them but to run as fast as they can from the approaching mob.

"Faster," she tells him, her feet feather light on the dirt roads. "You must run!"

His long legs make it easier for him to keep up, but still he occasionally stumbles over an unfamiliar object. He cannot fly with her, so she drags him along and knows that if they keep this pace, they might make it into the woods before the first stone hits its intended mark. Her back is stinging from some of the hits with the sticks, but none of the stones have hit anywhere too painful. Not yet.

"Ouch," she mutters as one stone hits her neck.

Her husband increases his pace after that, and she no longer has to hold back. They run freely into the forest, veering left and right as one.

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They do not stop moving until they reach the lake.

"We are beyond the limits," she tells him. "We should be safe now."

"Safe from what?" her rider demands.

She tries to catch her breath before speaking again, and as she side-eyes her rider, she notices that he is panting as well he tries to take in his surroundings with wide eyes.

"What exactly just happened?" the rider gasps. "One minute I was ready to be executed for a crime I did not commit, and the next we are married? What happened?"

He knows nothing of her town's old laws and customs, and it now falls to her to explain to him how they ended up in this situation. Blue eyes bore into hers as he impatiently waits for her to start talking. His body is clenched up – whether in anger or frustration or unresolved tension from their run, she does not know.

"I saved you from losing your head," she looks away from him, trying to create some kind of distance between the two of them.

"By marrying me?" her new husband does not seem particularly pleased or thankful.

Was she supposed to have left him for dead? She saved him from certain death and he acts like she was the one swinging the axe at his head. The anger burns in those cool blue eyes, and his jaw is clenched. She has the feeling that if they were not bound by this rope, he would adopt a pose that was more suited to his anger and frustration at his current lot in life. His fingers are twitching against her own.

"You should be very grateful to me," she cannot hold back her anger. "You would have been dead by now if it had not been for me."

Sure, she is not asking for his undying devotion, but she would appreciate something as small as a thank you from him. She did save his life, after all.

"I would be grateful," he sounds skeptical, "were it not that I have no idea what the hell is going on here!"

One of his brows is arched gracefully as he appears to look down on her. She will not be treated thusly; expected to roll over, come to heel, and follow his every demand. She wishes to cross her arms in defiance, but they are still tied together.

"I had maybe two seconds to make a decision," she shouts back at him. "If I waited just a little bit longer you would have been dead! It is not like we had the time to sit and have a lengthy discussion about our situation over tea."

He is quiet then, stuck in silent contemplation of her harsh words. He studies her face, and she tries to remain unaffected by his gaze. When he turns to look at their surroundings, she breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, his shoulders drop in what she assumes to be defeat – or acceptance.

Now, he just looks lost, standing next to her with no clue of what is next for them. She has no solution to provide either. Her trapped wrist is aching with rope burn, the two of them still tied together in the middle of the woods. They are married strangers.

"I wish to know your name," he finally says, and she smiles in his direction.

"People call me Changeling," she tells him softly, and though she meant it to tease, the word leaves a bitter taste on her tongue. She tries to slip free of the rope without hurting her wrist, and recovers quickly with, "but I was called Éponine once."

"Enjolras," he tells her, and she is to assume that is his name.

With a final twist, she manages to release her wrist from its bindings, leaving the rope dangling limply from her husband's held out arm. It is much too large on him, and the effect is rather comical, especially with him being wide-eyed at her mysterious escape from the rope. He has no idea what kind of creature he married.

"It wasn't fairy magic," she quips, kneeling at the side of the lake.

The water is cool against her heated wrist, soothing the sting of skin rubbed raw. She tries not to make eyes at her husband, because any time now he will walk away from her, a free man yet again. Nobody ever said that they had to stay together – he must realize that by now and take advantage of that loophole. She has no such option, because men have the power, even in a marriage like this.

So she straightens up and steps into the cool water, intent on having a swim while he leaves her behind. Her torn clothes cling to her frame with every move she makes into the pure water. It is so clear she can see her toes wiggling in the sand, getting cleaner with every step. She dirties up the water, but she feels safe and clean again.

"Are we staying here?" he asks.

He is still here. This Enjolras, he has not yet left her behind, as he should have. Judging by the disturbance she feels in the water, he is actually coming in after her, washing his clothing clean of sweat and maybe even blood. The lake washes away all pain and fear and damage to their bodies.

The pain of abandonment and loneliness does not fade in the water. Even though this husband of hers is intruding on her private sanctuary, on everything that used to be hers and hers alone. She only married him to save him, not to keep him.

"Do you not wish to leave me?" she tries to tempt him to do so.

"One does not leave his wife," he is wading closer to her.

This Enjolras, the man who is now her husband, stands tall, even now he is in the water, his pale shirt growing translucent and sticking to his skin. She feels a bolt of something in her stomach as she looks at him and wonders if the lake is making her sick – something it has never done before. But this bolt, this feeling, it is not quite pleasant and comfortable. So she does not like it.

"One does if one wants to," she argues, trying to ignore the sickness.

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The first time he calls her his wife in public, she almost trips over her own feet. They have traversed the forest and passed through several towns, but he has always chosen to move on. This is something she is glad for – towns do not allow for time spent with Mother Sun and Sister Moon. A town means being stifled.

But now they have found themselves in a veritable city with a stone castle on a hill, overlooking the large town. Enjolras moves through it with purpose, as he has done in the other towns that they have visited. He leads them straight to the castle, and they walk right up to the gate, instead of passing through the streets at the base of the hill, where they could find a place to rest for the night. Here, he finds no place for them to sleep.

What is so different about this place, she wonders? She scrunches up her face in confusion as Enjolras approaches a guard with a mean look on his face. Her husband does not look even remotely scared or intimidated by the fury that the other man is emanating, or at the size of the castle walls. Enjolras has a plan, and she is left to stand by his side, asking herself why they have not moved on yet.

"I have come to see Lord Pontmercy," her husband speaks to the angry-looking guard at the gate. "I have brought my wife with me."

She does not know this town, these people, and there is no large forest to hide away in – there is a large town with a small castle, where this Lord lives. But if she could not live in a shack in a small town, how is she supposed to stay shut up behind stone walls?

"Enjolras," the guard recognizes her husband somehow. "We thought you were killed in the ambush! You never sent word, and now you have found a wife? Preposterous!"

Yes, this farcical marriage is preposterous indeed. She wonders who this husband of hers was before he rode into her town and helped her kill a man. This bastard son of a lord who rides a horse as if the devil is on his tail and slashes at attackers with a fiendish glee that is at war with everything that she is and wants to be.

Who is this stranger she offered for? She wraps her arms around herself to keep out both the wind and her stupid thoughts.

"Bahorel," her husband chides. "You will respect my wife, for I would not be at these gates if it had not been for her. She stole me from the executioner's grasp."

It sounds like a tale from a storyteller, the kind of tales that annoyed her and entranced Azelma. She was a creature from those stories, the stories of fairies stealing children and stealing the goodness from the good humans here. These stories of wicked fairies and ugly, useless Changelings are just a part of the reason why she would always stay away from the marketplace or the town center.

"Her name is Éponine," Enjolras makes no mention of her other name. "She will be offered the respect she is due as my wife."

This man is the first to call her by her proper name, and that continues to surprise her. She was always that damn Changeling child to everyone else, that dirty, ugly creature that they are now glad to be rid of. To him, she is just the child who put his head on the block. And then married him to keep him off it.

Somehow Enjolras' words carry authority even though he is only a bastard son, and he is ordering the guards around at a Lord's castle. This guard, this Bahorel, he listens to her husband and lets them into a castle that will leave her locked away from ground and air – there are no Sister Moon and Mother Sun hiding in this castle. There is no lake to wade through with her bare feet. She might even be forced to cover them up.

Yes, that is the scariest thing that she can think of.

"Would you mind explaining?" she has to ask as they enter the castle.

"What should I explain?" her husband plays dumb, face carefully blank.

She has no doubt that he knows just what she is talking about, but he just wants to draw it out. The damn guy actually seems to want to build a friendship out of this necessity of a marriage, and she is left to wonder what he could possibly get out of that. She has already saved his life once, so maybe he thinks of her as a kindly female guard. Still, she cannot understand why he has not left her behind already.

"Why are we not looking for a place to sleep?" she keeps asking questions, hesitant to touch him to get his attention.

Her hand reaches for him and then quickly withdraws, knowing that she is not yet comfortable enough with him to do this. Her husband is still practically a stranger, which is why she is so annoyed that his presence seems to have an effect on her.

"This town is the closest I have to a home," Enjolras reveals. "I do not have the funds to keep traveling, not without seeking a form of employment. This is a place where I know I will be welcome. Where we will both be welcome. I know the Lord Marius."

Her bastard husband would be acquainted with rich men – her father would be so thrilled at that opportunity, had he known that his new son had these connections. To her, it is just one more sign that this stranger should have walked away from his Changeling bride days ago. No one would know or care if he did.

"I am not made for castle life," she tries to give him another excuse.

"I know that I am infringing upon your freedom, Éponine," he tries to understand, "but this is the only way I know to provide for us."

Well, this would make him the first husband she has met to make his decisions to include his wife's welfare as a factor. Father did not care for her mother's wellbeing, and she has not known a loyal husband in her life.

It is just her luck that she managed to marry one.

"Will you go to war?" she asks, starting to understand their presence at the castle.

Every guard that they have encountered on their way to the castle has shown some kind of recognition when they looked at her husband – the most likely explanation seems that he was once one of them. She has seen him fight once, on that night, and he looked like a warrior then. It is not a difficult leap to make to him being a guard or a fighter in this Lord Marius' army.

He has killed men before. Was this the first time he was almost executed for it?

"I will go where Lord Marius wants me," her husband turns almost demure.

"But where will I go?" she whispers, contemplative.

There is nowhere for her to go but behind guards and walls and locks. Mother Sun and Sister Moon are out of her reach.

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Lord Marius is kind and makes something in her belly flutter when he smiles at her, something that she pointedly ignores because she likes his wife, the Lady Cosette, and she dislikes anything that stirs her. This means that she dislikes her husband most of all, because ever since that day in the lake, she has not stopped being affected by his presence. While Lord Marius induces flutters, her husband Enjolras induces much deeper and more painful bolts that run through her entire body.

The electricity between them appears whenever her husband is around; when he is at her side in the armory, watching her shatter his arrows with her own as he whoops at her successes and teases her relentlessly when she misses, with a sense of camaraderie that she has never known before. She feels it when he spars with her and treats her like an equal even as they roll around fighting like animals; kicking, screaming, and giving no quarter. It happens when he teaches her how to ride a horse and she teaches him to let his bare feet root in the grass, letting Mother Sun approve of him. She even feels it when he is just next to her in their big bed, a sleeping space provided for them by the Lady Cosette. The mattress is so soft that it took her weeks to be able to fall asleep on it, even with a warm presence next to her that should be comfortable and familiar. Enjolras is anything but comforting.

Even in all this, she has no idea how she really feels about him. She has never cared about anyone in this way before, and she does not know what it means. Does this mean that she wants him, in that way?

What would Azelma tell her about this? It was always Azelma who was more interested in the stories of damsels in distress and their daring knights in armor. She had never felt, or never wanted to feel, like a damsel, and therefore had never cared about a knight before. And now she finds herself married to one.

"They have returned!" the Lady Cosette rushes into her rooms.

It has been days since she has last seen her husband, seeing as Lord Marius has named him Leader of the Guard and has taken him into every single battle – on that damned black horse of his. Lord Marius has made sure that Enjolras' possessions were returned to him – both sword and steed remain unharmed, even as they see battle. And even though her husband has made sure she can defend both herself and Cosette if need be, she would rather be out there, repaying her debt to him.

She still owes him her life.

"I really hope Marius remains unharmed," Lady Cosette always frets so.

Usually, she dismisses the concern that she feels for her own husband's safety, because Mother Sun and Sister Moon have not told her to be concerned – until now. This time, even though she does not get to spend as much time outside as she wants to, both Mother and Sister have been very clear. Something has gone wrong.

"Enjolras is hurt," she whispers.

"Have you seen anything?" Lady Cosette immediately clings to her in surprise.

"I can feel it," she responds as they stumble to the castle gates together.

Maybe she is a Changeling child after all, because only a daughter of fairies would know, would feel this truth so strongly without having any proof. Her bones tell her she is right, and her feet, even though they are not touching earth, feel like she is walking on someone's grave. She fears that it is her husband's.

She did not save him only to have him die.

"Milady," Lord Marius has found his wife, sweeping her off her feet.

All the men are returning, walking through the castle gates. She sees the scholar Combeferre, and the funny Courfeyrac, and rowdy Bahorel. All of the men are there, except for her husband – and no one will look her in the eye.

"Where is Enjolras?" she raises her voice.

Her fingers stretch out as she tries to feel for a familiar presence in any way that she possibly can. This is not magic – she is not a real Changeling, after all – but she does always tend to know when Enjolras is around. And this is no different, because she can almost feel him there, right at the edge of her line of sight. He is here.

"Where is Éponine?" there is a playful tone to his voice.

His golden curls are the first thing that she sees, and she foregoes looking into his bright blue eyes to look at the bandages wrapped around his left arm – his shield arm. He has gotten hurt after all, and his fellow warriors were too afraid of either his wrath or her response to his wounds. She narrows her eyes and steps closer to her husband, the man who is a curious mix of stranger and confidant.

"Next time I am coming along," she warns him, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through her body. "Someone has to keep you safe and unharmed."

Enjolras scoffs at that, and she assumes that he thinks that he has performed well enough not to need a protector. Still, she owes him her life – and more. She may not be free anymore, but it is hard to hate him for that.

Well, it is hard to hate him for anything when he is here with her, mostly unharmed and smiling at her. When he is gone, fighting battles far away, it is very easy to hate him for leaving her behind locked gates and walls that she cannot climb. There is no grass or dirt underneath her feet, and no torn clothes to wear or lakes to swim in. She has traded freedom for a gilded cage.

"The people deserve peace, Éponine," Enjolras tries to explain his need for violence to her. "Something needs to be done about the bandits robbing towns and hurting people wherever they go. Lord Marius cannot let this reign of terror continue."

She is fully aware of his reasons for enlisting in Lord Marius' guard again. She knows that he values the causes that the other man wants him to fight for, and she even knows that these things are all much more important than she is. Who is she to compare to villages of tortured people?

"You love this cause," she responds, defeated, "I know that."

"I will train with you," he offers. "I know you must have missed me terribly."

Stunned, she turns to look at him. Yes, she has missed him, has missed his company in the boring hours of night, when she was alone in their bed and tried to count the cracks in the wall to make herself fall asleep. Things are dull without him, and he is not as much understanding of that as he is actually trying to crack a joke.

"I did," she admits sincerely.

"What?" he is flustered and stammering, his face turning red.

He must have been proud of himself for joking with her, for speaking so lightly about something for once before she turned the tables on him. But she does not like lies, and so she will tell him truths instead of clever banter. These truths do not sit too well with him, as he tries to wring his hands nervously, even though he is injured, and his face refuses to turn back to its normal color. She has let him in on at least some of her feelings, and he is too flustered to respond.

"I was rather lonely," she admits. "I wish to go with you next time you leave."

After everything that he has taught her, she is quite proficient with a bow and arrow, and most of the guards are terrified when they see her with a knife. She can defend herself better than some of the men, and she would be an asset to any fight. Maybe someday it will hurt less when she has to hurt someone to keep her friends safe.

"You need to stay here," he argues with her, his face now stern instead of embarrassed. "You need to stay safe."

Staying in the castle is no guarantee for her safety – but she will not tell him that, for fear that he will take even more ridiculous measures to keep her safe. It is nice that he cares enough about her wellbeing to protect her, but she still feels stifled.

Within her funny little brain, an escape plan begins to take root.

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They are half a day's ride into their journey when the scholar Combeferre rides next to her and takes a closer look at her. It is immediately obvious to her that he knows – because she would not dare insult his intelligence so.

"Enjolras will find out," he warns her.

"It will be too late to send me back when he does," she straightens her shoulders and pushes her tangled hair back under her helmet.

She is aware of all of the men that she rides with, but none of them is she as aware as she is of her husband. Her rider on the black horse leads his cavalry with the same terrible viciousness that she saw in the way he moved his bloody blade that night. Her husband is a creature of anger and terror in battle, and she knows that transformation is mirrored in her own behavior in battle.

Mother Sun and Sister Moon guide her arrows in battle, and she does not miss. She does things a peaceful fairy child should never do, becoming a child of blood and earth and battle in order to keep her husband safe. She takes wounds for him and deflects blows with her sharp arrows. She does whatever she can do to keep him safe.

"I know it's you, Éponine," he tells her two weeks into their journey.

"Of course you do," she jokes with him even as she feels her breath catch. "Can you handle being saved by a girl all the time?"

Surely her husband is not like any other warrior in this – he taught her these skills, so he must admire her ability to use them to keep him and his friends safe. Still, she impatiently awaits a response from him.

"I have no problems being saved by a woman," he reassures her. "And especially not when said woman is my wife."

They ride next to each other from then on, hands occasionally brushing if the speed allows it. Their camaraderie is developing into something else, and even though the bolt going through her at his touch has not gotten any less unpleasant, the connection also serves to ground her and makes her stronger and better. She knows how he will respond to situations in battle – it is outside of this journey together that they are still the strangers who were banished from the only lands that she had ever known.

"Next time I am coming with you again," she vows.

Enjolras just laughs, as if it does not even occur to him to disagree with her. He has managed to accept her appearance rather quickly, and she tries really hard not to be suspicious about that. But she cannot help herself.

"How long have you known it was me?" she simply has to ask.

"Since the day we left the castle," he answers, and their hands brush again.

When she realizes just what he said, and just how long he has been able to see through her charade, she gasps. He has known what lies underneath her armor for weeks, and yet he let her stay on this mission. She cannot think of what his reasons might have been for acting this way.

"I could have gotten rid of this stupid helmet weeks ago," she pouts.

"Except Lord Marius has not yet figured you out," her husband whispers.

She stifles a giggle, because at this point everyone save their leader has managed to spot the woman hiding in their company. Sometimes she wonders at how clueless the man truly is, and then she remembers the Lady Cosette's blush when she talks about her marriage, and she knows that Lord Marius cannot be completely without a clue.

"Shall we make a bet?" she teases, eyes twinkling.

They shake on it, and her fingers linger on his skin.

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Their first kiss does not happen after a battle. It does not happen when they are exhilarated that they have made it out of the fray alive. It does not happen when the other men yell for them to kiss – because these men have the mistaken belief that something so simple to them would be easy for her.

She is terrified of these feelings, of lust and intimacy and some seeds of what could eventually bloom into love. With the help of a kind Lady Cosette, she has finally identified those blasted bolts as something signifying her attraction to her husband – no matter how much she wanted to remain unaffected by lust, she is now its victim.

One morning, as they wake up together – it was a quiet week in-between some of their many missions – she takes the initiative and quickly presses her lips to his. She is surprised at how warm it makes her feel, like magic is shooting through her body and she has been breathing in the outside air for days. She feels alive for that short time when their lips touch, until he tears himself away from her.

"Éponine?" he questions, eyes wide.

"I wanted to know my feelings," she holds her head high, even from her awkward position, half leaning over his form. "I apologize for offending you with my actions."

It is overly formal, especially now that they are not in particular need of words in their attempts to understand each other. They no longer need words when a clench of his jaw or a slight sigh from her speaks a thousand words.

"This was no offense," her husband smiles.

The look she gives him in return is skeptical; her face scrunched up weirdly as he pulls her closer, so he can kiss her sweetly, again and again and again.

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They are trapped before any of them realizes that the fight has started. Their group is small, and they were never meant to fight entire armies. So they withdraw into a church, because it has the tallest tower in town. This would give them a chance to see the next attack coming before it actually occurred.

"I want you to leave," Enjolras turns to her. "Take off your armor and put your hair down, and they will let you pass."

"Never," she vows. "I will not leave you, husband!"

The enemy is closing in on them. She can feel it. Standing up high on the bell tower, she feels Mother Sun trying to make room for Sister Moon. The day is fading into night and there is no way out for them. Could this be the end?

If it is the end of everything, she knows that she will not go down without giving their enemies a fight – one to remember. She swore to protect her husband, and protect him she will until her dying breath. Her pathetic Changeling life does not matter, not when she has to protect him – even from himself.

She stares down at the cliffs so far below and wonders how she will protect him when he is determined to send her away. She will not leave, but she doubts that he will give her much of a choice when it gets down to it. Her husband would sooner rip off her armor and push her into the arms of their enemies than have her stay at his side. He would sooner make her a widow.

"Enjolras," she tries to talk to him again.

"Éponine," he responds, eyebrow arched.

Damn him, looking at her so teasingly with his blue eyes twinkling, while she tries to find the words that will allow her to stay with him. How can he smile like that at a time like this? She punches his shoulder, trying to release some of the anger boiling in her blood, but it hardly even sways him. His only response is to chuckle.

"I am glad you seem to be so amused," she huffs angrily.

"I know this is not the time, my wife," Enjolras is still smiling. "However, since you are about to leave, I would rather spend these moments in relative happiness."

He is so sure of himself; so sure that she will consent to being torn away from her husband and friends. Surely, even after but a short year of marriage, he knows her well enough to see that she will never give up on him.

"You should know that I do not intend to leave you," she warns him again.

"Not for any price?" her husband is being deliberately confusing.

She can put no price on her loyalty, because it is in itself priceless. But at the same time, she cruelly wonders what he would give up just to keep her safe. What is the price he is willing to keep her safe? Just how much does she mean to him?

"What are you asking?" she cannot let this go.

"Is there nothing I can offer you that you want?" her husband starts to despair. "I would give you your freedom, Éponine. You have longed for it so."

Enjolras offers the chance to walk barefoot under the stars, to bathe in the lake and dance under the early morning light of Mother Sun. He offers a life without walls, gates, and guards. He offers everything that she has wanted of him for months now.

Still, she will have to decline. Even though she wishes to do these things more than anything, she does not wish to do them alone any longer. Her dreams have shifted, and now, when she ponders the future that she would like to see, she has someone by her side to share this life with. Her husband experiences it all with her, smiling at her while she lets her feet settle in the grass, stripping off their clothes hurriedly as they bathe, and dancing together under Mother Sun's golden light.

But those dreams will never be if he gives up now and lets her walk away from him.

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On their second night in the church, she plans a brief escape.

She cannot stand to be cooped up any longer; Sister Moon is calling for her and she has to feel her light on her skin. Two days inside is far too long for a Changeling child.

When most of the men are asleep, with only Combeferre on watch downstairs, she sneaks out of their rooms – the rooms they have chosen to stay in together – to see the moonlight hit the steeple of the church. Everything is better under nature's light; even the direst situation seems less terrible because of it.

"Oh," she takes a deep breath when the sight is just as beautiful as she imagined.

"I should have known you could not stay inside for so long," suddenly her husband is standing beside her under the same night sky.

The silver light of the moon is almost reminiscent of the night when they first met, and she can barely believe just how much has changed since then. The time has been rather short, but no less meaningful to her.

"That is just what Changelings do," she whispers, looking up at the sky.

"What do Changelings do, exactly?" Enjolras questions, and she can hear his smile in the sound of his voice. "I have always wanted to know."

Has he really never heard the lore before? Throughout her childhood in the village, she has heard many a tale about witches and magic and knights – but most of the tales told within earshot were about fairies. The town had already decided that her presence among them was the result of fairy magic, and they told her every story they knew that explained Changelings. She heard of how the fairies' worst children were switched with the most beautiful and most talented children they found in the world of the humans.

"Do you know what a Changeling is?" she asks, fiddling with her clothing as she tries to get more comfortable with the topic at hand.

"A fairy child," her husband stops her nervous twitching when he takes her trembling hand into his. "When a human babe is taken, the fairies leave one of their own behind to take the child's place."

At least he knows the basic idea of it. Still, she doubts that he knows the rumors about fairies, and the many different ways in which a Changeling can be tricked into switching back. She has been subjected to a good many of those over the years, and no one has ever come to claim her as their own.

"The human child is usually exceptionally beautiful," she continues, trying to keep her voice steady. "The fairy child is unusual at best. Moody children, peculiar children, ugly children. All of these could be changelings. And since I am all of these, it was easy for my parents to reach the right conclusion."

Her husband scoffs loudly at this, and she turns to look at him for a brief moment. His head is thrown back, his hair catching the light as he laughs softly. For some reason he finds all of this amusing – and she pretends it does not hurt.

"You are beautiful," he tells her, still smiling. "The fairies should have taken you for that alone. Your beauty, your strength, your inquisitive nature."

When she turns to face him, he is staring at her. The look in his eyes is like nothing she has ever seen before, all softness and warmth and kindness. He actually likes all of the things that people hate about her, and she does not understand.

"It is said that one can chase away a Changeling child," she turns away from him, unable to withstand the heat of his gaze. "If one cooks a family meal in an eggshell, the Changeling will disappear and be replaced by the original human child. My parents were incredibly disappointed when I did not leave after they went to all the trouble of cooking that way. It got even worse when the bathing in foxglove failed to work, and when I was not scared of getting close to the fire. Or the eggs."

Once again her tales are interrupted by her husband's laughter. This time is even worse than it was before. She is angry with him, as she opens her heart and reveals a lot of past pain. Why is her childhood so humorous to him?

"You were supposed to be afraid of eggs?" Enjolras is laughing loudly. "This is completely ridiculous. You are not a fairy."

If he truly believes this, he would be the only person to think so. She is the odd child, the young woman who prefers nature and freedom to embroidery and marrying a merchant who can provide for her family. If her being a Changeling is not the reason, then what else is wrong with her to make her like this?

"Then what am I?" she asks the question before she can stop herself.

"You are Éponine," her husband squeezes her hand. "You are strong and beautiful and clever. You are my savior and my wife."

He has kept his promises, has never broken his vows even though she gave him plenty of opportunities to leave her. He is a loyal husband who has had to deal with more of her oddities than anyone else has, and he has accepted them all.

"So, what will we do after I save you again tomorrow?" she tries to lighten the mood.

"We will return as conquering heroes," Enjolras paints a pretty picture. "Marius will offer us whatever we want. All I want is a piece of land, just for us."

Somewhere that is just theirs, a place that no one else is allowed to ruin for them. A place where she can be free, free to be herself and free to roam as she pleases. If anyone could give her that, it would be her husband.

"We could build our own house," she is wide-eyed with excitement.

"We could grow our own food," Enjolras is surprisingly content with the idea of a quiet life. "There would be no need for trading with merchants who always increase the price if they see you really need it. It would be true freedom. We could have that. "

So her husband does love freedom, almost as much as she does. She cannot imagine him without his weapons, as she has rarely seen him without them. Enjolras simply cannot help but save people, or at least attempt to do so. Is this him trying to save his poor bride, or is this something that he actually wants?

Does it even matter?

"We are not going to have that, are we?" she realizes. "We are not getting out of this."

Really, the odds are against them, and she is a fool for even considering a life after this church. There will be no land that is just theirs. There will be no house built on freedom and respect and something a lot like love.

"Éponine," Enjolras says her name and she is lost.

"Enjolras," she whispers in return, clinging to his hand in hers.

She is his anchor just as much as he is hers, and she slowly starts to realize just how much she has grown to rely on him. This husband of hers who holds her through the night and whose touches make her feel alive.

And above all else, she needs to feel alive right now.

It is easy to let go of his hand, and he looks almost disappointed at the loss of her touch, making her smile as she leans in for a desperate kiss. For all she knows, this could be their final kiss, their final touches, their final moments together.

"You don't have to," Enjolras pulls away and starts to talk.

"How can I not?" she pulls him close again. "It's you. It's us."

Their kisses are made of frantic need, of tongues dueling and teeth clashing as the moonlight shines down on them both. His face is flushing and she can feel the heat run through her body as he moves his hands, leaving them to rest on the small of her back, almost burning through the fabric of her tunic.

Her armor is lost in their makeshift common room somewhere, and she feels almost light in just her tunic, her body heating under her husband's touch. She kicks off the trousers because it is too hot to wear them anyway, and she wants to feel the pressure of Enjolras' body against hers. It makes her think of being at home, in bed with him in the middle of the night. Of being nothing but husband and wife.

But they are not truly husband and wife. They may have become friends after they spoke their vows, but they have never been lovers. Can she truly leave this world without having been a lover and a wife?

"Éponine," her husband once again uses her name, this time as a question.

He does not understand, so she will show him instead, slipping her hands underneath his clothes to feel the texture of his skin, smooth in some places and scarred and rough in others. She finds every mark that battle has left on his torso and tries to heal it all with a touch of her questing fingers. He groans into her mouth, into their kiss, and she tries her hardest not to smile too much.

As she pushes him down to the cold stone under the eyes of Sister Moon, there are no thoughts of other days and mornings still to come. She thinks only of his smile and his warmth and his hands on her trembling body.

Wandering hands and roaming mouths turn into pleasure that she has never known the like of before this moment. Enjolras is clenching his jaw, and she cups his face in a tender gesture, urging him to let go of boundaries and inhibitions.

"Husband," she calls him when they are finally one.

"Wife," he responds before pressing a kiss to her brow.

It is only when Sister Moon makes room for Mother Sun that they untangle themselves and try to salvage their clothes. They await the dawn and the upcoming end.

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It is the night of their third day when the offer is made. They have been stuck on rations and the little water they could find in the church for three days now, and being cooped up inside has not improved anyone's temper. Bahorel is carving up relics with his spare knife, eyeing the other men angrily as he reduces crosses and cutlery alike to flints of firewood for a fire they would never set. Even the usually so moody Grantaire is quiet as he drinks the holy wine left behind by the priests.

No one would dare to break this self-imposed silence, and so everyone keeps mum until that terrible offer is made.

They are being given a chance to walk away from the church. All they have to do is give their enemies this one thing, and they will be allowed to go home unscathed. And it is the one thing that she vowed never to give: her husband's life.

All they have to do is give up Enjolras for execution – or let him take his own life if he so chooses – and they are free again. Her stomach falls and she worries that she will expel the little food she has consumed over the last few days. Harshly, selfishly, she knows that she would probably give up anything – or anyone – except for him. She would jump off the tower herself if that meant saving her husband.

"Don't even think about it," she tries to warn him again, knowing it will lead to a fight.

"How can I not?" he turns away from her, standing too closely to the edge of the tower for her own comfort. "If I gave my life, I could save yours. I could save all of you."

She grabs his arm, forcibly tearing him away from the ledge. Anything that she can possibly do to stop him from giving himself up, she will do. She would sooner be damned than let him martyr himself in the vain hope that their enemy might keep the promise to let them leave unharmed. She would sooner jump herself than let her husband give up everything to keep her safe – again.

"Your death could never save me," she vows.

Her voice cracks on her first words, hurt at the mere thought of his death. She has him pressed against a wall that is as far away from the ledge as they can get without moving to another floor, and she wonders if she can just keep him there, keep him safe. If she could press him up against the cold stone forever, she would, if that would keep him from leaving her. It is pathetic and possessive and wrong.

"It would save your life," he does not understand.

"But it would not save _me_," she tries to explain, even though she hasn't the words. "You idiot, I am not free without you."

This is the only way she knows how to articulate just what he means to her. She has tried to tell him before, but never in actual words. Her kisses are supposed to speak volumes, but she has yet to see even the hints of him understanding the messages she breathes into him. So she starts with the skeletons of sentences, with words that can never convey the meaning she is desperately trying to get across. It might not be enough, but there are no other words that she dares to speak.

"Do not fight me, Éponine," her husband sounds tired.

"I will not stop fighting," she will not let this go. "You will not leave without me!"

Should she have revealed that much of her plan to him? Because if he were to rush himself over that ledge, she would follow him without another thought. As long as their friends managed to leave this town unharmed, she would follow her damn husband anywhere. Even into the hard ground below.

"Do not make a mockery of my sacrifice," he shouts, voice harsh and jaw clenched.

"I do not mock your noble nature," she swallows, her eyes burning with unshed tears. "I merely disagree with your death wish."

Her words are harsh, she knows that much. However, this is not the first time that he has put his own life at risk only to give her a fighting chance at a life of her own. She hates that his own life means so little to him –while his nobility is very much a trait to be admired, his lack of concern for his own welfare makes her sad.

Does he truly not see how worthwhile and valuable he is?

"Death wish?" he pushes away from her and closer to the ledge. "This is no death wish, wife. I just want to make the best choice in this situation. If giving up my life means that you live, I will gladly do so."

Truly, she understands the sentiment – she understands it a little too well for her own comfort – but he sees it all from such a narrow perspective. She damns him for not even thinking of what others would think or want. Damn him for being selfish and selfless and a damn fool all at once!

"Do you not understand that I would do the same for you?" she pleads desperately. "I would throw myself off that tower a hundred times to keep you safe."

The truth of it lingers in her very bones, even when Enjolras shakes his head, trying not to believe in what she is saying. Does he not understand that she will never be able to make up for that one night in the forest? Her very life and her sanity were both hanging in the balance that night, and he made sure she kept both while carving out a life for the both of them. Said life is not perfect, but it is enough for her.

"Our friends have to live," Enjolras continues to argue with her. "And so do you!"

Sure, she can agree with the former, because she cannot stand the idea of Lord Marius being separated from his Lady Cosette, and she needs to know that her friends will leave this town unharmed by anyone. Their safety is more important than her own life – if only Enjolras could be convinced to leave with them. She would gladly impersonate the leader of their company and let herself be captured and killed. It would save both her husband and their friends, and she would make that sacrifice gladly.

"We can at least agree on the first part," she sighs.

She would be fooling herself if she did not think that their friends were listening to most of this conversation. No matter how she tries to hide, voices carry up on this tower, and their friends are terribly nosy.

When she turns to see just who has managed to catch the things she said, several heads turn in another direction quickly. And she knows that they could never hope to hide the sacrifice from them – they are smart men, and no excuse is going to sway them now. She only hopes that they will listen to her next words.

"Please take Enjolras with you when you leave," she pleads with anyone who will listen.

"Damn it, Éponine," her husband interrupts her pleas.

These men, these warriors, would never let a woman sacrifice herself for them, and she knows that. She will have to do everything that she can to keep them from dragging her away from her husband by force. She can dig her heels in and unsheathe her vicious claws, but she is no match for all of these men – her husband will not save her this time.

"Let them say their farewells," Lord Marius orders his men.

Her eyes open wide, because while she knows that the Lord would be the only men here who understands what it is like to be married, she never even imagined that he would give them a chance to battle things out between them. Sure, he might think that Enjolras will be the one to win this fight, but she will prove him wrong. She will make her husband leave her, and it will be the last thing that she does.

"Farewell, my friends," Enjolras tells his friends.

"I will send him to you later," she vows in response.

Enjolras is angry with her, she knows that all too well. But she wonders how well he truly knows her feelings for him – well, she wonders if she even knows what her feelings for him are. She woke up alone and shivering this morning. While the memories of the night before are wonderful, no words of love have been spoken.

"It has been an honor," the scholar Combeferre bows for her and her alone.

The lump in her throat is too big for her to speak. Tears burn her eyes – is she really ready to give up everything? Could she really give up the first friends that she has ever made? Could she give up her own life?

A flash of gold catches her eye, and as she turns to look at her husband again, she knows that she can do anything – she would _do_ anything – to make sure that all of these men live through the day. Her life is forfeit.

"Combeferre," she stops the man before he leaves.

She reaches for her friend and hugs him, holding him close as she whispers in his ear.

"Take care of them," she begs of him. "Especially my husband."

When she releases her friend, he nods at her solemnly, and she is both sad that this will be the last she will ever see of him, and pleased that he understands that she will not let Enjolras take this leap. Her scholar friend understands that there is no way she will leave this tower – and he will not try to remove her by force.

At least Combeferre respects her choice. If only her husband would do the same.

"Please leave, Éponine," her husband just will not listen.

"Do not ask me to leave if you will not do the same," she despises the double standard.

It is almost acceptable for brave young men to give up everything to save their comrades, or to save a gorgeous damsel in distress. If the damsel wants to be her own hero, however, things are suddenly quite different. She simply has to stand by and look pretty while her valiant husband jumps off a church tower to keep her safe. How can anyone expect her to do nothing while he dies?

She is no damsel – she has fought with these men often enough to be called a comrade in arms before she could be called a lady. Still, it seems hard for them to accept her choice.

"Take her with you," Enjolras tries to order his friends around one last time.

There is no response from any of their friends as they slowly but surely depart, heading for the stairs ever so reluctantly. They all look away from Enjolras as they refuse to acquiesce to his request. Some of them (Bahorel and Feuilly) salute her on their way out, while others (Courfeyrac, Jehan, and even Grantaire) appear to be choking back tears.

"Damn it," her husband curses when there is no one else to hear it.

His men and his Lord have left, and briefly, she selfishly wonders why their enemy did not ask for Lord Marius' death. Why not kill a Lord? Or is the risk of repercussions that much greater if they were to demand the life or capture of Lord Marius?

Oh, she is a horrid creature. She is a horrid Changeling brat who should have learned to care less about her own happiness and more about the greater good.

"Go with them, Éponine," Enjolras will not stop this.

"Why don't _you_ go?" she asks him in return.

"Because I couldn't stand the thought of you giving up your life for me," her husband finally admits it. "You should be free, free to just be Éponine."

It has been far too long since she has been on her own, and yet she hardly misses it. And why should she miss it, when she has a kind husband at her side and comrades in arms to support her? Sure, she would love to spend time under the light of Sister Moon again, but now that Mother Sun colors her skin a warm gold, she does not miss the connection with her natural family. She will miss her friends more.

Will her death take her back home? Will she be switched back, like a trade gone bad, so that Father might get his real daughter back? What happens to Changelings when they turn selfless and die?

Frantically, she looks every which way, trying to figure out a way that will keep him from jumping until after she has already done so. Now that their friends have gone, only the howling of the wind interrupts their argument, and the roof is left uncomfortably bare with them as the only presence. And an uncomfortably bare roof does not give her a lot of opportunities to keep him from jumping. Oh, she might have to tie him up or hurt him to stop him. Can she really do that to him?

"You're an idiot," she has to distract him now.

"Éponine," Enjolras tries to make her look at him again.

It is hard to look him in the eye while she contemplates betraying him. For now, she lacks the tools to do so, or the conviction to physically hurt him for his own good. That sort of thing has never made sense to her anyway, and she does not want to kick, punch, or otherwise hit him to knock him out and keep her from jumping. She wants him to remain completely unhurt.

"Why can you not let me go?" it is still impossible to look at him.

"I want you to be safe and unharmed," he argues, and she fights not to respond to that.

She would say the exact same thing if asked, and so it becomes very difficult for her to speak up about her anger towards him. She wants to blame him for putting his own needs before hers – or is it the other way around? Everything has gotten so twisted for both of them, and now she no longer knows what is up and what is down.

When she sees the short string of rope that is just within her reach, she almost collapses with the sheer relief of it. This is her chance, her one and only opportunity to keep him safe, and she has to take it.

First, she only manages to get one finger on the rope, slyly moving the both of them closer to it so she can grab hold. Her knot-tying skills are near perfect at this point, and she can have him tied to the building so fast he will not even have the time to notice what she is doing. One loop goes around his wrist, a smooth motion as her hands pull the knot until she deems it inescapable.

By then, it is too late. Before she even reaches for the other end of the rope, there is a similar loop around her own wrist, tied with a ridiculously complicated knot. Her husband is smart and fast, and somehow he has outfoxed her.

"Éponine," is all that Enjolras says.

"At least this way you cannot go without me," she pulls on the rope.

It will hold them; keep them together when the ground approaches. It is sad that she cannot convince him to leave her to her sacrifice, but he will not be swayed. And when push comes to shove, she would rather die than live in this world without him.

Sure, she will miss his kisses and his roaming hands turning her body electric, but what she will miss most of all is just having him by her side. Having his scent surround her when she wakes up in the middle of the night, hearing his laughter when he is so very delighted with her, the taste of his skin when she moves her mouth over every inch of his body she can reach. Her every sense needs him by her side.

It is in the way he listens to her and lets her fight and does not even try to treat her as that weird changeling brat. He accepts her.

There is no weeping – not from either of them. Acceptance is difficult at this point, but her husband is as quiet as she is when they face the ledge together. The ground seems so far away, but they can still see their friends making their way to the town's borders. It seems like their enemy has kept their word – and that means that there is no time left for tearful goodbyes. They have to jump or risk being captured and killed.

"Please go," he begs of her one last time.

She rolls her eyes at him fondly and kisses him briefly, a short meeting of lips that can hardly be called a proper kiss. If she has to go, she wants to go with his taste on her lips.

Hands clasped tightly together, they inch forward. The ground beckons, and she knows that it is time. It is their time.

He clings to her just as much as she clings to him when they take the final step.

She closes her eyes, and then everything is black.

e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

Children avoid this particular corner of the forest, and even adults do not dare to step foot anywhere near the shore. They say that the area is haunted.

Only the brave warriors that follow Lord Marius dare to visit these woods – no one else has entered and come out alive. There were many tales of people that were never found, and when such tales were told once again, the Lord Marius and his guard appeared again to conduct a search party. No one was ever found.

The people living near the forest watched the searches year after year, watching as Lord Marius grew old, his hair greying at the temples and spreading until there was nothing but silver left on the old man's head. Even though two of the Lord's sons were now old enough to accompany their father, Lord Marius never stopped visiting the woods.

Somehow, the leader's visits never did anything to stop the hauntings. When the wind was right, the sounds of a child's laughter could be heard – whether the child is a boy or a girl seems to change every time. There is a song in the air, and even on a summer night a chill can be seen and felt in the windows. Sometimes, when the sun has gone down and the lights flicker indoors, shadows move between the trees.

There is more going on than meets the eye. When the light of Mother Sun hits the lake, splashing is heard even when there is no one around to create a stir.

Children are discouraged from getting near the area, but they are always safe if they do happen to stumble too deeply into the forest. Many a child has insisted that a shadowy woman with a moonlike serenity took their hand and led them past the lake. Before they found their way back to town, they were joined by an equally shadowy man with golden hair. Both were almost smiling, and when the shadows spoke, the children swore that it sounded like the rustling of leaves and the running of water.

No one knows who the shadow couple could be, and the children's opinions differ greatly about this. There is talk of Lords and Ladies, of fairy children that were never returned – no story is the same. No one knows the truth…

AN: Yeah, I know. EPIC. I hope you liked it, and please let me know what you think. Comment/like/etc… I live for that stuff.


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